


Death Wrapped In Velvet

by ladyofstardvst



Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Reunions, Swearing, ch-ch-ch-chaaanngessssss aka We're Doing This My Way kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofstardvst/pseuds/ladyofstardvst
Summary: he always wants to work alone, until he finds someone he loves.
Relationships: John Constantine/Reader, John Constantine/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Death Wrapped In Velvet

**Author's Note:**

> during my 732 month long writing hiatus, i managed to speed through the Constantine show from 2015 and three seasons of Legends of Tomorrow (specifically for this asshole), so I don't really Go Here yet, but I have a Thing for writing angst and Feelings about characters I love and adore and giving them some semblance of Hope and Joy. so. uh. hope i didn't ruin him? im getting there? im rusty? im sorry? be gentle? thanks for reading this dumpster fire?

It was unsettling how much time had changed things.

It was even more so when you didn’t even notice.

You never marked when the full moon would disappear from the sky to shift into it’s darkened counterpart all new and fresh and transformed. How seasons blended together like blood faded into water down a drain, pink and slick and thinner than it should be. Easier to shed than it should be.

It was even more strange, when you looked back in time. How distant, yet how _close_ the past seemed to linger, to live on in that liminal space of _just-happened_ and _eons_ _beyond eons ago_. How time seemed to slowly guide your life into twists and turns, navigated through ups and downs and changes that were – for the most part – in a better direction than when you last looked backwards through your memories.

You wondered if maybe it was all a lie, the fragments you were left with. If time stole the truth from your grasp, leaving you with broken bits and pieces obscured from your full line of vision. You had forgotten a lot of things, yes, but _this_ was one thing you would never forget. Would never _allow_ time to get it’s treacherous hands on, to steal or bend or break or pry from your magical stained fingertips – because, _well_.

Things were not simple between you and John Constantine, nor were they easy. But then again, _n_ _othing_ was simple whenever Constantine was concerned.

“You know,” you began, lips quirked as that familiar feeling settled down your shoulders, came home to warm your chest and quicken your heart. Hands shoved themselves in pockets to avoid rash actions. “Last time I saw you, you were at death’s door on the other side of the Atlantic.”

You voice was calm, even, light.

He huffed a sad excuse of a laugh, turned his head away from your eyes. You saw a pained smile come and go anyway, watched as he took a drag of a cigarette to try and deflect, to try and hide what you could always see. Time had changed many things, but maybe they didn’t change as much as you thought.

“I’m harder to kill than that, love. You ought to know that by now,” Constantine said, trying like all holy hell not to let the pure _sight_ of you throw him off balance. Tried – and failed – to bar himself from falling back into old habits, because he so very much worked better on his own. Your time on the road together proved him right on that - but deep, deep down, he knew it was all for nothing.

And you knew, of course, how hard he was to get rid off permanently.

You _did_.

But you had left John Constantine to die anyway.

Bloody and bound across an ocean, a job gone so incredibly, so drastically _sideways_ it still haunted your dreams, still followed you around like a fog. Enveloped you in a haze that was dark and opaque to see through at best. Both of you, backed into a corner with a demon hell-bent on revenge, hell-bent on ripping the two of you to shreds. Physically. Emotionally. _Relentlessly_.

You, the only one with magic in those last moments, with the freedom to end that mess and get you both out alive. The demon, one step ahead, three steps ahead, old enough to see every trick in the book, old enough to know your attacks and end them before they even began. John, telling you to run, yelling at you to save yourself when you had an opening to get away. Pleading with you to leave him behind.

Magic glitzed at your fingertips, electrifying but useless.

His time had come after all, he said, no better way to make it count than with one hell of a distraction that would make both God and Devil themselves tremble all the way on their gilt thrones of blood and bone.

After refusing, arguing, telling him to fuck right off – eventually you listened. Reason grasped your shoulders, cold and icy fingers dug into your skin to turn you right around when the opportunity arose. Reason tamped down the dread, the fight, the impulse.

You looked back only once.

His eyes met yours and the denial you felt was so overwhelming it almost knocked you down to your knees. The slight smile upon his lips shattered your heart, his infuriating resolve punctured your lungs, froze your blood.

He nodded only once. There was no time left.

If there had been a chance, you would have given him some semblance of a proper goodbye, but Constantine knew what you would tell him if there _had_ been time. If there had been a merciful God. He didn’t have to guess, because it was written all over your face.

He had learned how to read you like a book, and you knew it.

When you were finally gone, John Constantine felt every bone in his body crack and shatter – not literally – as he watched the one constant, the most radiant being in his godforsaken life (literally) save themselves and leave him to die. The love of his life chose this one time to listen to him. It was the biggest ‘ _fuck you_ ’ the universe had ever shoved in his face.

It was poetic, he thought.

It was justice, whispered the logic.

It was _bullshit_ , screamed the dreamer.

And so it was. Until it wasn’t.

Clearly, John Constantine was a lot harder to kill than anyone – divine or no – gave him credit for.

You wished you were surprised.

If anything, your heart broke even more than it had when you thought he was dead.

All those old, familiar feelings rushed to greet you when you looked at him, really registered that he was _here_ in front of you, wreathed in smoke and moonlight under the stars above. The alley he followed you down . . . this was all so very reminiscent of _before_ , so very _deja vu_ that your knees wanted to give out on you again. Your whole entire being wanted to surrender to that shitty weight of the past few years and crush you underneath the savage force.

You weren’t about to let John Constantine know how that he could still surprise you.

“I mourned you, you know,” you said, an eternity of silence making your oh so quiet, oh so hesitant voice louder than the heavens falling down, down to your Earth below. This was uncharted territory for you both, but “death” has a funny way of throwing caution to the wind. “Everything we could have been - what little we were. I missed it like a _lung,_ John.”

He wasn’t expecting that, wasn’t expecting a confession of any kind – quite frankly he was expecting the absolute opposite.

He remembered though, what little there was to relive. Skin ghosting skin, nights and mornings and days of constant company. Your favorite way to pass the time by losing yourselves in one another. Secrets whispered, walls dissolving with caution brick by brick. Hearts were gifted unknowingly.

That much was very clear when he pulled a face, eyes suddenly looking anywhere other than you.

The silence returned and all you heard was his voice strained from magic, strained from fear, strained from telling you to _run, you’re the best chance any of us have, love._

Rarely did you allow yourself to think of the regret that laced through his tone, the apologies he conveyed with his eyes. The lies he wanted to tell you in their place played on his tongue. Chills hugged your spine every time you thought of the way he said your name like a holy prayer, dripping hubris and blasphemy, every sinful thing woven into the way it rolled off his tongue.

You remembered the feeling of his hand slipping from yours, feeling empty and scared and suddenly not wanting to live another day without hearing his cynical doom and gloom speeches about living a dead end dangerous life.

He took another drag, dropped the remnants of his smoke to the ground. Both of you watched it for a moment, embers glowing in the dark of the night. He crushed it with his shoe. “Sounds like a lot of time wasted.”

The sigh that ripped through your throat wasn’t new. “I deserve more than you being your worst self right now,” your voice hardened _just enough_ when you replied. Then you thought for a moment, then two. “And so do you.”

The words he spoke next were in agreement, and so he decided to meet you halfway. To maybe make a change that neither of you were probably ready for, but ‘death’ did tend to throw caution to the wind. He took a step closer to you, and then another. John knew what this would lead to, but he wasn’t about to stop it. Not when he spent the last few years wishing you were the one with him cleaning up the messes others left in their wake.

“I missed you too,” he said, voice low and hesitant, laced with that very same twinge of sorrow. He was going to betray himself, but he was so very done with pushing you away. He was _tired_ , and all he wanted was a moment of _peace_.

You stepped closer to him next, only thinking to stop when there was barely a breath separating body from body, skin from skin. “Maybe you shouldn’t make a habit of it this time.”

He pulled you in then, your invitation accepted quicker than you could draw breath. Constantine kissed you like the world was ending again, like this time there would be no _after,_ no loophole to jump through to save yourselves. You held on to him like you should have all those years ago – only this time, you didn’t plan to let go.

And neither does he.

“Seems it takes more than the forces of darkness to keep us apart, love,” he said when you remembered how to breathe again, remembered that you truly did need air to kiss him again. He apologized in his own way for the past, for the present, for what would come to pass in the future, because you both knew there would not be a clean journey ahead of you. This was all so very new, so very _unlike_ him that you couldn’t help but wonder what terrible thing had opened his eyes while you were apart.

Yet your smile still tore asunder the darkness wherever it dared to dwell. It stole the breath right back from John Constantine’s shitty lungs, and it scared him half to another early grave.

And maybe – just maybe – he could accept that.


End file.
